Margo's Story
by Rachel D
Summary: A typical day in the life of 22-year-old Chicago EMT, Margo Pike. COMPLETED!
1. Chapter 1

_**MARGO'S STORY**_

A/N: This takes place between BSC 10 Years Later and You Needed Me. Also, see how many _Rescue 911 _references you can spot.

**CHAPTER 1**

_"Ya got-ta do what-cha can,...an' let Mo-ther Na-ture do the rest!...There ain't no doubt about it; we were doub-ly blessed...'cuz we were bare-ly se-ven-teen an' we were bare-ly dressed!"_

That was the song blaring from my iPod as I got off the bus. And even though I'm probably the world's worst singer, I couldn't help singing right along with Meat Loaf—but I also made sure to sing softly enough so the other passengers wouldn't hear me and tell me how much my voice sounds like shit. Let me put it this way: if you combined the sound of a chicken bone in a garbage disposal with a car alarm, that would be my singing voice.

I arrived at the fire station that Tuesday morning to see my partner, Mark Evans, restocking our unit. He has shaggy dark brown hair, a graying bushy moustache and goatee, and black-rimmed John Lennon-looking glasses. "Hi, Mark," I said as I put on my jacket and got out my walkie-talkie, flashlight, and mini-toolbelt.

"Margo," he answered in his heavy Midwestern accent as he closed the bench seat where we store some of our gear.

"Any calls yet?" I asked.

"Nope," he answered, handing me a pair of gloves. "It's still early. We may be gett-ing one soon, though."

Okay, introduction time. I'm Margo Pike, and I'm twenty-two years old. As you may have guessed, I'm an EMT. I've been on the job for about three years now—most of which has been in Chicago, where I live—and I enjoy every moment of it, especially when I can make a difference in the outcome of someone's life.

I still can't believe I'm able to do this, especially since I was the Queen of Motion Sickness when I was growing up. In fact, I once threw up on a merry-go-round, and I wasn't even sitting on one of the horses. Go figure.

You're probably wondering why I'm mentioning this. Well, you see, Sudsy's Carnival was in town when I was seven, and Kristy Thomas, one of my former baby-sitters, got this idea to take several of us kids to the carnival over Mother's Day weekend to give our moms a break. Here's how that worked: after our dads dropped us off at Claudia Kishi's house with our sack lunches, the age group of the kids at the time—between two and a half and nine years old—was divided among each sitter, and our dads were either going to watch the babies or do something with the older kids. (Since Mr. Barrett had long since left, Dad took care of little Marnie.) After we got done at the carnival, our baby-sitters took us to Carle Playground for lunch, then after we ate and had a chance to play, we went back to Claudia's for crafts and stories until time to pick us up.

I was born in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, where I lived until I finished my EMT training the summer I turned nineteen, then I found that there was no position for me, so I moved to Chicago. I did a few more months of training, and last summer, I was paired up with Mark, after being a fill-in for a couple of years and working alongside several different people. He's a nice guy, even though he's in his mid-forties. I actually met him soon after I finished my extra training, because his previous partner was killed in a fire. This guy was helping lift some kids through the broken window of a house when a big antique lamp fell on him, followed by the stand it was on, and broke. Both of the kids he was rescuing escaped with only minor injuries, but he died of not only his injuries, but also smoke inhalation. Mark told me that in that one, he not only sprained his left ankle and was in a cast for six weeks, but he also got some cinders in his left eye, which is why he switched to glasses after wearing contacts for so many years. He also told me he saw the whole thing, and still refuses to talk about it to this day.

But other than that, our partnership works out so well. The best part is, I don't have some prized collection that I'm always yapping his ear off about, and he doesn't bore me to death with stories about his wife and kids, all four of whom are younger than me.

I climbed into the ambulance and got the clipboard and some forms out of one of the overhead compartments. The purpose of the forms is for someone to sign when we arrive on the scene, and they decide transportation is not necessary. I've had at least a dozen people fill those out in my career, but so far, I've never been on an accident scene where someone died. (Yeah, I can't believe it, either.) Personally, I am not looking forward to that.

I put the paperwork between the front seats, then climbed over to the passenger seat as Mark climbed into the driver's seat. He pulled out of the garage, and after I picked up the radio and reported in to the dispatcher to let her know that we were available to respond to any calls, we sat parked outside while we waited for our first call.

"So, how was the movie the other night?" I asked as I threw my empty V8 Fusion bottle in the trash sack.

"Great," Mark answered. He and his family, along with some friends from their church, had just seen _Heaven Is For Real _at the mall's new cineplex. You know, the story of little Colton Burpo's near-death experience during an emergency appendectomy. I'm currently in the middle of reading the book on my Kindle, which my sisters, Mallory and Vanessa, recommended to me, but I haven't seen the movie yet. "Kellie—you know, my youngest—couldn't take her eyes off the screen for a second. Anne and I thought she was just as moved by the movie as we were, but when we got home, Charlene, our oldest, told us it was because Kellie has a crush on the kid who played Colton."

I immediately burst out laughing when he said that. "She's only six!" I managed to gasp.

"Exactly. I'm used to Charlene's boy-craziness—well, she _is _fourteen—but I was so sure Anne and I had at least five more years before we had to worry about Kellie acting this way. Four, at the most."

"At least they didn't start singing 'We Will Rock You' during the movie, right?"

"No, they saved it for the ride home."

"And I also take it that nobody started singing 'Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing' and howled like dogs, either," I laughed.

"Right," Mark agreed.

Just then, the dispatcher's voice came over our radio, telling us that there was a child in status epilepticus—a condition in which one has either a prolonged seizure (over five minutes), or more than one in a row without regaining consciousness in between—and where it was happening. "Time to rock 'n' roll," I said.  
Mark nodded as he put on his gloves, then he sped out of the driveway and turned on the siren.

Another day had begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

When we pulled into the driveway of the address we were given, we got out of the ambulance, and I grabbed the duffel bag with our medicine supply in it. We were greeted by a frantic woman who looked at least ten years my senior. She had waist-length chestnut brown hair that was held back with a white headband, blue eyes, squarish tortoise-shell glasses, and had on dark blue jeans, white running shoes with silver trim, and a mint-green sweatshirt that said, "YES, I'M THE FUN AUNT" on the front.

_"Cassie?" _Mark exclaimed. That's when I knew that the frantic woman was his sister, so I figured it was one of her kids who was having the seizure.

"Mark, thank God," she said, fighting the panic in her voice. "It's Lydia."

"This way," Mark said. Cassie led us into the house, where we found four-year-old Lydia having a seizure on the living room floor. I knelt beside her and checked to make sure that there was nothing in her mouth. So far, so good.

"How long has she been seizing?" I asked.

"About fifteen minutes," Cassie answered tearfully, checking her watch.

"You did very well," Mark told his sister as he knelt beside me. He opened the bag and got out the Ativan to give the first injection. After he did, we waited to see if it would work. After another ten minutes and several drug combinations, Lydia stopped seizing, and I put the oxygen mask over her face. Mark picked up his niece, I picked up the drug bag, and we went out to the ambulance. When we got there, Mark strapped her in, and I climbed up beside her. That's the way it works. Mark and I take turns driving each day, and the other person takes care of the patient.

"I'll follow in the car," Cassie told us. She led her two sons, twelve-year-old Carl and nine-year-old Jesse, to their red Toyota. Mark nodded, and shut the door behind us.

As we sped away from the house, I checked the little girl's vital signs and made my report to the hospital. By the time that was done, Lydia looked like she was starting to come around, so I took her hands.

"Lydia?" I said. "It's Miss Margo. Can you squeeze my hands?" No response. "Come on, Lydia."

At that moment, another seizure started, so I repeated the meds. By the time that one was over, we were pulling into the ambulance bay of Northwestern Hospital, where James Hobart, whom I've known since I was seven, was starting his third year of med school. I didn't know which rotation he was on, though.

When we opened the doors, one of the doctors—Dr. Brown, as I later found out—was waiting. "What do we got?" he asked.

"Lydia Donahue, four, status epilepticus, one round of meds at the scene, second round en route, just now starting to come around," I reported without missing a beat.

"Pupils reactive but sluggish, appears altered," one of the nurses added.

"It's my niece," Mark said as he hurried over to where we were.

"Oh, Jesus," I heard another doctor say. "I'm so sorry, Mark."

"Trauma One," Dr. Brown ordered. We took Lydia to the room and transferred her to the table while I repeated my report.

I started to push the gurney back out the door when I looked over my shoulder and saw Mark still standing there. "Mark?" I called. "Mark, it's okay. They'll take care of her."

"Your partner's right, Evans," Dr. Brown said. "We'll keep you posted. In the mean-time, we need you to go outside."

"But she..."

"Go, _now."_

On our way out with the gurney, we heard one of the nurses showing Cassie and the boys to the waiting room. "Call me when you get a chance," Mark called to his sister. She tearfully nodded as she and the nurse sat down, and we were soon out the door.

When we got back in the ambulance, we drove around for a while. "She's in good hands," I tried to reassure my partner. "I've heard that Dr. Brown's one of the best pediatricians at Northwestern."

"I know, but still, it's my niece," Mark said. I could tell how worried he was.

"I'm well aware of that, but you always told me to never let my personal feelings get in the way," I reminded him as I handed him a fresh pair of gloves.

Mark started to open his mouth to say something else when a bluish-silver PT cruiser about ten feet away from us started to cross the intersection. All of a sudden, a white VW came running through, barely missing the other car, and smashed head-on into a mailbox! The real shock to both of us was that it didn't cause a massive pile-up right in the middle of the intersection.

"Wait here," Mark said, pulling on his gloves as he jumped out. "I'll be right back."

Somehow, he'd managed to put aside his worrying about Lydia to take care of business.

As I watched him hurry toward the crash, I had a gut-feeling that we'd need some help, judging from the condition of the VW. I grabbed my radio, gave the dispatcher our location, and hurried over to where Mark was.

I opened the driver's side door of the VW, and saw that it was an elderly man—mid-60s was my guess—slumped over the front seat. I unfastened his seatbelt, wrapped my arms around his chest, and pulled him out of the car. Next, I picked up his wallet, which was on the floor by the passenger side, to look for ID, and saw that his name was Scott Moore. "Mr. Moore, are you okay?" I asked as I shook his shoulder.

There was no response. Just then, the driver of the PT cruiser came running over to us. "Is he okay?" she asked.

"Bag him," Mark said as he started chest compressions. I got the ambu bag out, put it over the man's face, and started squeezing.

A minute later, Pickman, one of the other EMTs, came over to relieve me, so I decided to check on some of the other people. The first person I turned to was the driver of the other car, a young Hispanic girl who looked about a couple of years younger than me. "Are you all right?" I asked.

_"Sí, _I'm okay," she answered with a frantic nod. I could tell that she was still badly shaken, so I led her to the back of the ambulance, where I helped her inside and sat her down on the stretcher so I could check her over a little better. "What happened?"

"Mr. Moore had a heart attack, hon," I said, putting on my stethoscope. "My partner's working on him now."

_"Ay, Dios mío," _she said, fighting the tears that were coming. She was clearly more concerned about the man than herself. "Will he be okay?"

I shrugged as I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm and checked her blood pressure.

After I finished examining her, she started to cry. "Hey," I said, sitting on the gurney beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. "You're okay, Everything's going to be all right. Do you need to come to the hospital with us?"

She shrugged, and I helped her lie back on the stretcher and strapped her in. Just as I turned around to shut the doors, Mark came over.

"We got another one?" he asked.

"Yeah, the girl who was driving the other car," I answered. "Her BP's 108/82. She's still pretty shook up, so I think we should take her to the hospital to be checked over, just in case. How's Mr. Moore?"

"They got a rhythm. He's stable for now, and he'll be in the other ambulance."

"Good deal."

Mark nodded and shut the door behind me, then climbed into the driver's seat.

"I'm Lucía Hernandez, by the way," the girl said as we sped toward the hospital.

"Hi, Lucía. I'm Margo," I answered. "So, what were you doing when the accident occurred?"

"I was going over to my grandmother's to take her out to lunch," Lucía answered. "When I saw the other car coming, I panicked, so I had to stop."

I nodded as I reached for her wrist. "You know, you're a very lucky girl. That VW missed you by that much."

"I know," Lucía panted. "I heard the sound of the crash, and people screaming out-side, and thought for sure we were both dead. When I opened my eyes, I saw you helping Mr. Moore out of his car. That's when I ran over to where you were."

"That was very nice of you to worry about him," I commented as I folded her arm across her chest.

We soon arrived at Lakeshore Hospital. "I think I'll be okay now," Lucía said as Mark came around the back to open it for us.

"Okay," I said as we helped her out.

After all that excitement, and as soon as we got all the patients inside, Mark said, "You know, that accident really worked up my appetite, so what do you say we go to Rax? And yes, I'm buying."

"Sure," I agreed as I climbed into the passenger seat again. "Oh, did I ever tell you that my brother and sister were part of this show choir when we were kids?"

"I don't think so," he answered, peeling off his gloves and handing them to me. Af-ter I peeled mine off, I threw both pairs in the little trash sack that was hanging on the air/heat knob.

"Well, when I was ten, my brother was eleven, and my sister was eight, they were in this group called the Stoneybrook Kids, which was a show choir for kids between the ages of seven and eleven. It had been started by the middle school choir director, and he was helped by this one kid that everyone considered a neighborhood hero," I said.

"Why weren't you in it?"

"Have you ever heard me sing?"

"Point taken. And just between us, my singing voice souns like shit, too."

"Anyway," I continued, "they were invited to compete in this competition in Washington, DC, the first summer of its existence. According to my brother and sister, the kid who was our hero wasn't feeling well on the day they'd left, and when they stopped some-where for lunch, he collapsed outside the restrooms. Luckily, the stepsister of one of my former baby-sitters happened to be nearby, and when she went to get help, she found two EMTs who were on their lunch break, and got them to look him over. They even took him to the hospital in their ambulance."

"Was he okay?"

"He had to have his appendix out," I answered. "According to his stepsister, when he woke up from surgery, he started singing 'Good Morning, Starshine'."

Both of us laughed. I hadn't laughed like that with him since we were on a call a few weeks ago when the epileptic patient we were treating was so doped up on the meds we were giving her that she started saying all this funny stuff, like her Barbie doll's hair—which she'd been playing with (the doll, I mean) when she had the seizure—was bleached, and hers was blond. And could anyone with half a gnat's brain not know the differ-ence? (Her words, not ours.)

"Well, let's hope nothing like that happens today, okay?" Mark said.

I nodded as we pulled into Rax. Within minutes, we were sitting by one of the big bay windows with our lunch: a Philly, curly fries, and Diet Mountain Dew for Mark, and a BBC, onion rings, and raspberry iced tea for me.

"So, tell me more aobut this Stoneybrook Kids group," Mark said as he dipped a curly fry in some ranch sauce.

"Oh, they were so talented," I said. "I wish you could've seen them. I'll never forget seeing their show the night before they left for San Francisco. It was a few days before my high school graduation—and I was the salutatorian of my class, by the way—and their show's theme was '80s one-hit wonders. Ricky Salem sang 'At This Moment' for a solo, and while he was, this little red-haired girl about three seats away from me was mouthing the words, and I'm almost positive I saw a tear in her eye."

A huge grin spread across Mark's face when I told him that. (By the way, don't tell his wife I said this, but when he grins like that, he looks like Rob Lowe.)

"I'll bet she thought he was singing to her only, right?"

"Oh, yeah."

"So, did he give the girl his phone number, or did his mom tell him that he wasn't ready for a serious relationship yet?"

I just grinned and shrugged. Leave it to Mark to make a corny joke about young love. (A distant relative of Sam Thomas or Alan Gray, perhaps?)

As we got up to throw our trash away, I heard my radio go off. I looked down and saw that it was the office, and we were needed again.

It just never ends, does it?

í


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The story about the epileptic patient and the bleached/blond Barbie doll's hair is a reference to one my mom said happened when I had one of many seizures as a kid, even though I don't remember it. (And no, I didn't say the "half a gnat's brain" part.)

**CHAPTER 3**

When we arrived at one of the local high schools, something hit me like a thunderbolt. "Oh, my God," I realized. "This is where Claudia Kishi teaches."

"One of your old baby-sitters?" Mark guessed.

"Yeah," I answered. I had a horrible, sinking feeling, one that was bad enough I couldn't even tell Mark what it was. I knew there'd been an accident, but I couldn't bear the thought of who the injured party—or parties—was. The pieces were starting to come together in my head, but I just couldn't let them.

Now, it was my turn not to lose control.

"Margo?" Mark's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Margo, let's go."

"Right," I said, somehow managing to pull myself together. I knew who we were here for, but I had to stay focused. I had a job to do.

_We _had a job to do.

The first thing I noticed when we came through the front door was the smell. It was like a rotten egg type of smell, so strong and rancid that I damn near lost my BBC. Granted, my stomach is no longer the weak, unstable mass that I was cursed with as a kid but it was still pretty nasty.

"Margo!" I heard a voice shout. I looked up, and running toward me, looking every bit as artsy and exotic as she did when we were kids, was Claudia Kishi.

"Claudia!" I exclaimed as I ran up and threw my arms around her. "Oh, thank God! I thought it was you!"

"No," she answered tearfully. "It's Mr. Dayton, the chemistry teacher."

"What happened?" Mark asked.

"One of the kids just told me," eh answered. "It happened in the lab. Someone ad-ded the wrong chemical to an experiment they were doing. Then the beaker started to smoke. Mr. Dayton saw it and tried to rush it to an open window, and—it..."

That was as far as she got before she collapsed in our arms.

Two more EMTs had just arrived while we were helping Claudia over to a nearby couch. One looked about a year or two older than me, and was a tall black man with a shaved head, a needle-thin moustache and goatee, and a name tag that read "SMITH". The other looked around Mark's age, and was a shorter, stockier blond man with bluish-gray eyes, gold-rimmed John Denver-looking glasses, and a name tag that read "KENDALL".

"There's been an explosion in the chemistry lab," Mark told them.

"How bad?" Kendall asked.

"We don't know yet. We just got here a minute ago."

"All right. You two get to the lab. Smith and I will stay here with—what's your name, ma'am?" he asked Claudia.

"Claudia Kishi," Claudia sobbed.

"Okay, Miss Kishi, just stay calm," smith said. "We're going to help your friend."

"This way," Mark ordered, and we ran to the lab. Along the way, I was expecting to find the entire room in shambles.

Well, much to my surprise, the room itself was still intact, but when we saw Mr. Dayton, it was obvious that he was hurt big-time. The upper left side of his face, part of his hairline, and the entire left side of his nose were burned and bubbling up like a dollop of butter in a skillet. But by some miracle, his eye hadn't even been affected. It still ama-zes the hell out of me to this day.

"Okay, out of the way, kids," I said as we made our way inside. The students were all huddled back against the wall, and you'd better believe they were freaking out. One of the girls was crying in hysterics as she clung to her boyfriend, a big, strapping ox of a kid in a football jersey. I still remember the look on that kid's face, and although he never spoke, his eyes said it all: "Please help him."

The first thing we did was remove Mr. Dayton's shirt, in case anything had gotten on his clothes—which, thankfully, didn't happen. Next, I took charge of checking his vit-al signs while Mark contacted the hospital on his walkie-talkie.

"Do you know your name?" I asked Mr. Dayton as I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"Ken—Ken Day...Dayton," he whispered, grimacing in pain.

"Age?"

"Fif—Fifty-five."

"Where are you?" Mark asked as he put on his stethoscope.

"School. In the—in the middle of class."

"What day is it? The date?"

"October—fourteenth. Tuesday."

"What year?"

"Two thou—2014."

"What time is it?" I went on, checking his blood pressure. "Mr. Dayton, the time?"

"One—1:29."

"Who's the President of the United States?"

"Ba—Barack Obama, unfor—unfortunately."

_Yup, definitely a Republican, _I thought. In case you're wondering, yes, I'm a Democrat.

"BP's 93/51, pulse 112, GCS normal," I reported to Mark, taking off the blood pressure cuff and handing it to him.

"And his heart rate's pretty high, too, due to how much pain he's in," Mark added as he took off his stethoscope. Then, holding up three fingers, he asked Mr. Dayton, "How many fingers do you see, sir?"

"Thr—three," Mr. Dayton answered as I put the EKG leads on his chest and started an IV. "And there—there's a scar. On your left in—index finger."

"Yeah, I got that in auto shop my freshman year. Damn near severed the whole thing, too. It wasn't a pretty sight," Mark said as we helped our patient onto the gurney with some help from Smith, one of the other EMTs, and the football player. "Do you need us to call someone?"

"Call my wife," Mr. Dayton said as we wheeled him out of the room. The football player grabbed Mr. Dayton's jacket and slung it over the back of the gurney. "She—she's across town. Baby-sitting our—our grandson."

"Got it."

On my way out, I stuck my head in the main office door and called, "Can someone call Mrs. Dayton?"

"We just did," one of the secretaries answered. "She'll drop the baby off at a neighbor's and meet you at the hospital. And she said she'd call their son and daughter-in-law."

"Good deal," I said, and we were out of there in a flash. On the way to the door, Claudia saw us coming, and jumped up.

"Ken!" she cried as she ran to him. I hadn't seen her look this upset since she told us about the time she heard Mr. Nicholls hit one of his boys.

"He'll be okay, Miss Kishi," Smith reassured her as we started down the wheelchair ramp. "And don't worry, no one else was hurt."

"Do you want to come with us?" Kendall asked.

Claudia nodded vigorously. "Just let me get my jacket, tell the principal where I'm going, and ask my assistant to cover for me," she said. "I'll be right back, okay, Ken?"

"O—Okay, Claudia."

"All right, easy, guys," Smith instructed as we loaded Mr. Dayton into our rig. "We'll meet you there."

"Right," I said. After we got him inside, I climbed into the back. Mark shut the doors and hurried to the front seat.

Did I mention that it never ends? Because it doesn't.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

During the ride to County General, I kept talking to Mr. Dayton, trying to keep him awake, and checked his vitals again. When we arrived at County, we were greeted by two doctors. "What do we got?" one of them asked.

"Ken Dayton, fifty-five, chemistry lab explosion," I said as I jumped out of the rig and helped ease the stretcher out. "Second- and third-degree burns to left side of face, eyes unaffected. BP's 100/69, pulse 92, but at least he's conscious, clear, and alert."

"Let's go!" the younger of the two doctors—Dr. Greene, as I would come to find out—said.

As we made our way inside to get our patient to the trauma room, I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw a middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue blouse, tan chinos, and dark brown penny loafers. "Ken!" she shrieked. Right away, I knew it was his wife.

"I—I'm okay, Eileen," he whispered. "Where's Cody?"

"Your grandson?" Mark guessed.

Mrs. Dayton nodded as she pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her eyes. Then, turning to her husband, she said, "He's with the Bentleys."

"Good deal," Mr. Dayton smiled. "Tell them—tell them we owe them a bridge game when this is over."

"I will," Mrs. Dayton laughed, smiling through her tears.

"Okay, Mrs. Dayton, I need you to wait out here," I said as we wheeled our patient into Trauma Two. We gave our report to the doctors in the room as we transferred Mr. Dayton onto the table, then headed back out.

When we got back out to our rig and put the gurney back in, we saw Smith and Kendall, the other two EMTs that met us at the school. "How is he?" Smith asked.

"He'll be fine," Mark said. "None of the chemicals got in his eyes or on his clothes when it blew, thank God, so he won't be blind."

"Boy, that is one lucky son of a bitch," Kendall commented.

"I'll say," I agreed. "Say, this may not be the right time to bring this up, but we haven't had a chance to introduce ourselves in all this excitement. I'm Margo Pike, and this is my partner, Mark Evans."

"Todd Smith, and this is my partner, Jack Kendall," Smith—I mean, _Todd—_said.

"So, where are you guys station?" Mark asked.

"Firehouse Thirteen. You?"

"Firehouse Twenty-two, South Side," I said. "It's not too bad, once you get used to the smell of burned strawberry fritters from down the street."

"Ohh, you guys are near Grundy's," Kendall—_Jack—_groaned sympathetically. "Man, I do feel sorry for you."

"That bad, huh?" Mark guessed.

"Let me put it this way: it's the only donut shop in town where what they sell can barely be identified by science," Jack explained. "Your best bet would be to bring some donuts from home and divide them among yourselves."

"Thanks for the tip," I said. "So, what's your unit number?"

"Nineteen," Jack answered. "You?"

"Thirty-six," I answered.

At that moment, I heard Todd's pager go off. "Well, needed again," he said. "It was nice meeting you."

"You, too," Mark said as we got in our separate ambulances. They headed east, and we headed west.

The sun was setting as we got back to our firehouse. On this day alone, we'd treat-ed Mark's niece for a seizure, assisted in helping a man after a heart attack that caused him to get into an accident, came to the aid of one of my former baby-sitter's co-workers, revived a teenage boy with a heart condition who'd overdone it at the racquetball court, and stopped a guy on an acid trip from trying to jump off an overpass. And to top it all off, we also delivered a baby—which turned out to be a boy—and took both mother and baby to the hospital.

"Hell of a day, huh?" Mark commented as we parked.

"I'll say," I agreed. "It never gets any easier, does it?"

"Well, no, not really. I still remember my first year on the job. My partner and I were called to help get some people out of an apartment fire, but what the dispatcher neglected to tell us was that there was a shootout between two gangs going on seven blocks away."

"Whoa!" I exclaimed. If my eyes could get any wider, they would've popped right out of my head. "Did you get shot at?"

"Surprisingly, no," Mark said. "But we did get a lovely assortment of bricks and bottles thrown at our rig on the way out."

"Oh, that's great," I groaned. "I guess it won't be too long before I get to experience that."

"Well, hopefully, you'll never have to."

"And I thought New York was bad."

We went inside to get a bite to eat before clocking out. Our firehouse has a small kitchenette on the top floor, and after a hectic day, that's where we always go when we return. Today was definitely one of those days, so that's where we went. And if you know firefighters or EMTs, you'll know that we always work up an appetite on the job. Luckily for us, it was Tuesday, which meant that the fridge and cabinets were full. The rule at our firehouse is that on Mondays, the firemen go shopping for enough food to feed an army, which includes us EMTs. Then whenever we notice that something is running low, we buy it ourselves.

As I took the hot dogs out of the microwave and fixed them up for us—the works for Mark, and just ketchup and mustard for me—Mark opened a bag of barbecue potato chips and put them in a bowl, then got two cans of Diet Rite out of the fridge. Just as we were getting ready to sit down, his cell phone rang.

"Evans," he answered. "Oh, hi, Cassie. How is she?...Oh, thank God...Thanks for letting me know. Oh, and if you need someone to watch the boys tonight, Anne and I will be glad to do it...Okay. Tell them I'll see them when I get home. 'Bye."

"How's Lydia?" I asked as soon as he'd put his phone away.

"She's awake and alert," Mark answered, opening the jar of relish. "When she woke up, she didn't remember a thing about the seizure, the ride to the hospital, not a damn thing. Dr. Brown says they want to keep her for a couple of days."

"Boy, that's a relief," I commented. "That must have been so scary for you."

"It is, but I'm getting used to it. Lydia's had this condition since she was a baby. When she was born, we didn't think she'd make it to her second birthday, and now she's four."

I took a bite of my hot dog, wiped a little blob of relish off my chin, and said, "Wow, that's amazing."

"I'll say," Mark agreed. Then, changing the subject, he said, "So, uh—I noticed how well you and Smith were getting along today."

"Oh, you mean Todd?"

_"Yes, _I mean Todd," Mark said, in the same tone of voice that Mallory always used whenever she thought one of my siblings or I had asked the dumbest question in the world. "I notice things, kiddo. That's part of the job."

"Mark, I just met the guy a few hours ago," I laughed. "I'm not exactly making plans at Chez Hoity-Toity right now."

"I wasn't asking you to. I was just making an observation."

I couldn't help grinning and shaking my head. "Okay, I'll level with you," I admitt-ed. "He is kind of cute."

"Didn't I tell you I notice things?"

"All right, that's enough," I said, waving my hand. "Well, it's almost quitting time by my watch."

"Uh-huh. Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be here," I answered.

As we threw our trash away and clocked out for the night, I knew perfectly well what Mark was getting at: he knew I liked Todd, and I should try to get to know him a lit-tle better outside of work.

And after our little chat, I figured why not?


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This is the last chapter.

**CHAPTER 5**

You know how I keep saying that an EMT's job never ends? Well, it's true. Sometimes, as I'm walking the four blocks from the firehouse to the bus station, I'll come across someone who's either broken a bone, having a seizure, or who knows what else.

Tonight was no exception. As I turned the corner to cross the street, I saw a black GrandAm pull up to the curb. The driver—a young Filipino woman who looked about seven or eight years my senior—got out of the car, then reached into the back and pulled out a gasping, teary-eyed little boy who looked about the same age as Mallory's twins, pounding him on the back all the while. Right away, I knew what the problem was.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I ran over to the curb.

"My son's choking!" she cried.

"What'd you have to eat?"

"McDonald's."

"Give him to me," I instructed. Next, using the Heimlich maneuver, I kept up the chest thrusts until he coughed up a big half-chewed bite of cheeseburger. It splattered on the pavement next to a fire hydrant, and the little boy, now breathing on his own, started bawling. I hadn't heard anyone cry that much since Claire wanted her teddy bear back that she'd put in the time capsule, which had also been a Kristy Thomas idea. She'd buried it prior to her eighth grade graduation, and it was dug up seven years later, after I'd finished my freshman year of high school.

"It's all right now, honey," I said soothingly as I rubbed his back. "Are you scared, or just mad at the world in general?"

My guess, a little of both.

"Thank you so much," the woman said as I handed her crying son back to her. "You're an EMT, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered.

"Say, what's your name and firehouse number? I'd like to send a letter of thanks to your chief."

"Oh, you don't have to."

"I know, but I want to."

I gave her the information, then she got in her car and drove off.

After they were out of sight—and no, I wasn't about to remind her that she was parked next to a fire hydrant—I continued on my way to the bus stop. As I sat down on the bench and took a Baby Ruth out of my purse, I thought about my life in Stoneybrook, my family, and the Baby-sitters Club. I felt damn lucky, having the family and friends I had, even though we Pikes were, and probably still are, the single most rambunctious bunch of hooligans that ever lived. If you combined _Eight Is Enough _with _Wild Kingdom, _that'd be us in a nutshell, which is why we always needed two sitters. It was also a family rule that if more than six kids were at home, we'd need two sitters.

I also thought about the day I'd joined the BSC—or, to put it more accurately, inducted. I remember it like it was yesterday. You see, Kristy and the older BSC members were getting ready to leave for college that following fall, and they still wanted the club to continue. So Kristy passed the baton, if you will, to her stepsister, Karen Brewer, who's now a hairstylist in Vero Beach, and is engaged to a guy named Mark Judson. I met him last summer, and he's a great guy. In fact, he'll be graduating from the police academy in the spring.

Anyway, Nancy Dawes—who's now Bill Korman's fiancée—was made vice-president; Hannah Papadakis, secretary; Natalie Springer, alternate officer; and me, treasurer. It was like watching the next President being sworn into the White House. Kristy had actually taken the BSC notebook, made us put our left hand on it and used a shortened version of the Presidental oath. And you know what? As long as I live, I'll never under-stand how we were able to get through that without busting a gut. I'm just glad that while she was doing that, she didn't make the mistake of saying, "I, state your name." (Yeah, I know—I've seen _Blazing Saddles _too many times.)

The bus soon stopped near my apartment building, and after walking half a block, I went inside and checked my mailbox. As I rode the elevator to the third floor, I checked my mail: an electric bill, letters from Byron and Jordan, and one of those little ads they like to put in mailboxes. As I got off the elevator, I threw the ad in the trash, like I usually do, then made my way down the hall to my apartment and unlocked the door.

The first thing I saw when I went inside was the little light blinking on the answering machine. I pressed the button, and the first message was from Claudia. "Hi, Margo. I just wanted to thank you for helping Ken today. The doctor says he'll have to stay in the hospital for a few days, but otherwise he'll make it. And the principal has already taken care of finding a substitute for him while he's recuperating. Oh, and I was wondering if you were interested in going out for lunch this weekend. There's this great new Thai place over on Wabash. Give me a call as soon as you can. 'Bye."

After listening to the last message, which was from Mom, I took out my iPhone and turned on the Facebook app. I don't know why, but I had this sudden urge to go on there, look them up, and tell them I loved them. None of them were online at the time, but just the same, I left a message that was basically along the lines of, "Hi, guys, how have you been? I've been doing all right, just another day of saving lives. And yes, if you really must know, I've long since gotten over my legendary weak stomach. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to get together sometime, because I'd really like to see you. If nothing else, I'll see you at Thanksgiving. Oh, and I just wanted to say I miss you and I love you."

After I finished messaging Mallory, I thought about what Mark had said. He was right about one thing: I sort of did have a little crush on Todd. My first impulse was to get out the phone book, but then it occurred to me that if I did, he might think I was coming on too strong. Stacey McGill-Thomas always told us that if there was a guy we were inter-ested in getting to know, after confirming that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring, the last thing we should do is jump right in too quickly, if you know what I mean. That made all the sense in the world to me. Ultimately, I decided to take my time and not make it too obvious that I liked him. Maybe if I see him again, I'd try to get to know him a little, and hopefully, establish a friendship. But not right now. It was a hell of a long day, and after thinking about it, I decided I'd do it tomorrow if I saw him, and there was enough time.

Because, like Vivien Leigh says, tomorrow is another day.

**THE END**


End file.
